


Gravity

by irrelevantmer



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, I'm so sorry, M/M, god help me, i cried, this was painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevantmer/pseuds/irrelevantmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one shot about Sherlock's depression after John dies. After the events of season 3. Based on gravity by John Mayer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity

Suffocating. That's how it felt without him. Sherlock kept trying to breathe but his breath kept catching in his chest.  
Sherlock pulled the long silky cigarette out of the package, hands shaking, and lit it with a sigh and a half of a tear streamed down. "All I ask is one miracle, John. Please don't be dead."  
The torrential downpour of memories thrashed against him. Every second of every minute of every day through the years slammed up again and again. Meeting John. Giggling at a crime scene. Meeting the queen. 57 text alerts. Tea. Lost Wednesdays. "You know you do that out loud." "Hamish, in case you're looking for baby names." Clueing for looks. Madonna. Vatican Cameos. "I don't have friends. I've just got one." "I'd be lost without my blogger."  
That did it.

For days the only thing Sherlock was capable of doing was crying. That was it. Couldn't light a cigarette. Couldn't play the violin. Couldn't even look at his chair. Every piece of him that John had snapped back together was now shattered beyond repair. A younger, more prideful Sherlock would have at least tried to glue them back together himself. But he knew now that his effort would only cut his hands. So he left the ragged pieces of his heart alone. He had a feeling they would always be that way. And for the first time in days, he lit a cigarette.

Sherlock suddenly stopped crying. For a moment the only thing on his mind was "cigarettes taste different with teardrops." And he lit another one. Lungs were stupid anyway. TV was stupid, Mary was stupid, November 15 was stupid, tea was stupid and feelings were really goddamn stupid. Yes, he decided. No more crying. And he lit another cigarette.

After about a week, cigarettes stopped helping.

He didn't know how he made himself get out of the flat, but he did. He didn't know how he found himself in a very familiar alley, but he did. He didn't remember buying it, but he did. He did remember telling himself all the way back home no needles. He would not use needles. If he used needles it was all over. This would be a one time pick me up. Nothing more.

A mirror, a razor and a £100 note. Two little lines. That's it. That's all he would let himself have. He breathed a little better for the first time in a fortnight. 

Somehow, he found himself there. In a daze of cocaine, he arrived at the cemetery. He'd meant to bring flowers. Ah, well. John's.... Well it's not like he's going to see.

His hand never left his hair. He never realized how weird curly hair feels. All those individual strands. Some were coarse and others weren't and it was all so... So fascinating.  
His left hand was playing Flight of the Bumblebee on his thigh. That's how he felt nowadays. Buzzed.

The stone was big and bright white with black lettering, exactly the opposite color that Sherlock's was. He tried several times to say what he meant. Eventually it turned out something like this:

"You once said that the people on your blog thought I looked like an otter. I always thought that was really inaccurate. I remember saying that otters are much nicer.  
I'm not an otter. Otters aren't alone. I feel so alone. I don't know why. That's my greatest fear. I used to think it was being ordinary, but if I could be with you I wouldn't mind being ordinary. I would at least have someone. I feel so disconnected from everyone. Keeping secrets for 4 years, hiding away so I won't get hurt. I'm cold, mean, sarcastic and bitter and I've ruined every relationship with everyone I've ever met. I'm not like you, you know? I am alone and depressed and no one wants to be around me. No one will come to my funeral. No one will miss me when I'm gone. I just want everything to stop but if everything stops then EVERYTHING STOPS. But I can't do this anymore. I hate myself for not saying this earlier. To be fair you were with her. But John. I think I... I love you, John. So much. And I always will. And you'll never know."

Sherlock was found dead in his flat 3 weeks later, from an overdose. He had scratched the words "sorry John" in the floor with a razor blade.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, well there's that. I think I did everything alright, but feel free to Britpick if I missed something


End file.
